


The Draw of Fear

by Mysdrym



Category: World of Warcraft
Genre: 2nd Person, F/F, Smut
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-02-01
Updated: 2021-02-01
Packaged: 2021-03-18 20:07:46
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,507
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29123922
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Mysdrym/pseuds/Mysdrym
Summary: When you arrive in Revendreth, ready to plea for the Winter Queen's anima, a certain member of Sire Denathrius' court catches your eye.
Relationships: The Fearstalker/OC
Comments: 3
Kudos: 11





	The Draw of Fear

**Author's Note:**

> I don't normally write in second person, so I don't know how well this turned out. Feedback is always welcome!

When you first arrive in Castle Nathria, it is late. You know so because of the way the Lord Chamberlain complains of it, of the carriage ride taking entirely too long and of how he hopes you—more likely he—hasn’t missed dinner.

The sky overhead looks the same shade of red as it did when you arrived, so you take his word for it, and do your best to fix your armor and prepare to meet a god.

This is the first time that a god of the Shadowlands will be meeting you right away. The Archon seemed to do everything in her power to keep you at bay, the Primus is missing, and the Winter Queen is far too busy to afford a mortal more than a few precious minutes.

A few precious minutes and yet another responsibility.

Retrieve anima from Sire Denathrius.

As you brush off a bit of dust from your armor, Lord Chamberlain pauses to give you a once over that clearly says you are not and never will be worthy of the audience you are about to receive.

The ceiling yawns over vast halls, disappearing into darkness as you follow your unenthusiastic guide, past parlors full of venthyr in gowns and finery the likes of which you’ve never even seen on the nobles back home. A few curious stares turn to whispers that you can’t catch as you walk by.

You look back once, expecting to see faces peering after you as you go, but the hall is empty, save for the stone guards that seem entirely disinterested in your arrival.

The Lord Chamberlain is merciless in his pace, up stairs and down corridors, leading you deeper and deeper into the heart of the castle. You want to ask him to slow down, even for a moment, so that the strain in your legs can ease.

You have been running since you came to the Shadowlands, and you feel like you should be running now. He doesn’t use his own legs, instead floating ahead, and you wish dearly that you could do the same.

Just as you’re ready to tell him no more, a break is needed, he turns a corner sharply and stoneborn are opening a door for you and ushering you in. It closes behind you, feeling like a slam, though perhaps it is just that the doors here are so big and so old that they can do nothing but.

The room is massive, big enough to be a ballroom in its own right, though near the middle of it are several seats and fainting couches—though you doubt they’re called that here. Five figures recline while others stand about, backs stiff as the dead.

Considering where you are, it’s a poor choice of words, but at least they’re not spoken out loud.

All eyes turn toward you, and you momentarily wonder if perhaps you did speak, or if they can just hear you anyway. More than once, the creatures of the Shadowlands have been able to read you in ways that make you uncomfortable.

It’s easy to find Sire Denathrius. He reclines in the middle sofa, directly across from the door, though he needn’t be. Somehow, everything in the room directs one’s gaze to him. The arrangement of the furniture, the slight angles at which the venthyr around him place themselves, all facing him. Even the candlelight seems to be drawn toward his figure, the light dancing across his skin in an odd way, accenting muscles, yet also struggling, as though to flee his very presence even as it is drawn to him like a moth. He is larger than any of the others in the room, and his horns mark him unique. Lord Chamberlain claimed that the sire made the venthyr in his image, and yet he is so clearly different.

His skin is paler, his legs end in hooves, and those features are almost too perfect.

He is beautiful, but the sort of beauty that one knows comes with the unobtainable.

He is a god, and you are a mortal. There will never be anything there.

When Lord Chamberlain introduces you, you itch to follow his words quickly, to offer the envelope bearing the Winter Queen’s plea and be gone from this strange place. Back to Azeroth or one of the more pleasant afterlives. One where screams don’t echo out along the halls, their origin both too far and too close for comfort.

However, Sire Denathrius is one for pleasantries. He introduces himself and then with a simple turn of his wrist, the others who are sitting follow suit.

Your eyes meet the Countess’s, and she is all smiles that might be taken as charming if not for those sharp teeth that glisten just so in the candlelight to let you know that the creatures here are predators.

Next is the Stonewright. She does not smile, fortunately enough. It feels as though a reminder of those teeth from her would be _too_ terrifying, considering her mere presence sets you on edge. There is anger in her, deep and old and bubbling just beneath the surface, ready to be stirred.

Harvester of Wrath, indeed.

To the sire’s other side, you find her. The Fearstalker. She is introduced as the Harvester of Dread, though you barely hear that. She sits back, one arm over the back of her seat, one leg stretched out, and a glass of something dark in her other hand, barely held around the rim by clawed fingers. Her hair curls out to one side, as though an imaginary wind is tugging at it, and laid back as she is, you can sense that she is powerful. Terror does coil in your gut, but that is not the reason your breath catches when she greets you.

As your eyes meet, she shifts her grip just enough to bring the glass to her lips, never taking her eyes off you as she takes a long sip. When she lowers her drink, her smile is more of a smirk, her head tilting slightly before she finally looks away and to her side, to where the final member of the court sits.

You realize a bit late that introductions have moved on and hastily look to the last venthyr being introduced to find that the Harvester of Envy—you’ve missed his name—is not amused.

With a word from Sire Denathrius, your attention snaps back to him—you force yourself not to pause on the Fearstalker as you gaze darts over her. Those standing at attention are already moving, gathering documents and what looks like maps with the markings of…troops? They clear the tables between the five and are gone before you realize what is going on.

You’ve interrupted a war meeting.

Your heart sinks a little as you realize that, like every other realm in the Shadowlands, Revendreth must be in danger.

“I’ve heard of your message from the Winter Queen,” Sire Denathrius states, his voice smooth as silk. As he tells you his realm is beset with drought as well, you wonder why you were even needed here. If he got the message before you and has nothing he can give, then it seems you have traveled so far, opened a pathway from Oribos, for nothing.

“Come.” Sire Denathrius stands abruptly. His hooves make no sound on marble floor beneath him. He crosses the room to tower over you, inspecting you with a curiosity that very few have dared to show openly. “It is late, and I can see our guest is worn. This discussion can wait until tomorrow.”

You’re not sure what more there is to discuss, but the idea of sleep is far too tempting to argue that you should just head back already.

Lord Chamberlain is ordered to lead you to a room, and you catch the displeasure that he hides quickly as he accepts his new task with a simple, “Of course, Master.”

He turns sharply, pausing beside you to give you what looks more like a grimace than a smile as he tells you to come along. At the door, you can’t help but glance back to catch a glimpse of the Fearstalker, but she is talking to the Stonewright, her back to you.

Even that is a lovely sight, though a small laugh from the Countess brings you out of that, and you realize that you’ve stopped completely. Forcing your attention back to your unwilling guide, you find him standing in the hall, any illusions of a smile wiped clear now that his master cannot see him.

The room given to you for the night is mercifully close by, and you are quickly left on your own as the Lord Chamberlain barely gives you the chance to step inside before he is gone.

Compared to the previous room, this one is small, but it is still more opulent than what you are used to. A bed, far too large for a creature such as yourself, sits against the far wall. The sheets are dark and unimaginably soft when you run your fingers over them, and the canopy is tied loosely to the four posts.

The rug muffles your footfalls and when you turn to find one of those little creatures, like the ones who first welcomed you, you realize that it makes it easy for anyone to sneak around.

The creature, a dredger, offers to clean your armor. “Might as well,” they persuade you. “Them fangs look for any reason to look down their noses, so no sense in giving them easy shots.”

When you look a little lost, they sigh, easily figuring out what has happened, and stomp over and past you, to a large door beside the bed, taking up the discarded role of guide. “Washup room’s through here. Gots lots of scents and soaps and all that. Not a fan meself, but…” They shrug as they stand there, just far enough into the room that you can follow in and inspect it.

The bath is huge, easily big enough to allow for a full party in at once, and the water, like everything else in this realm, is dark. When you run your hand through it, there is a soothing warmth to the touch.

“The shower’s here. Just…” the dredger waves their hand around a bit and water comes down from overhead. When the dredger notices you looking at them, they shrug. “Not saying yous a dumb one, just seen new fangs get a bit lost themselves. Every world’s different in what they got in the washup rooms, so I hear.” They pause and wave their hand, making the water fall again. “This ‘uns for scrubbin’, and that ‘uns for soaking. Or some such. Wouldn’t know meself, never used it.”

With a nod and a thank you, the two of you stand there another moment before they remind you that they are going to wash your armor. They do not move to wait outside, nor do they look away when you finally shirk your dusty gear. However, you find some amusement in how unimpressed they are when they see you naked.

Clearly, you are not their type.

Once they are gone, you step over to where they made the water fall, and it does so again, a wonderful, soaking rain. That there are many soaps is an understatement, as there is an entire tray of them set up just beyond the water’s reach. You take one that smells a little less foreign than all the others and wash up.

Once the layers of grime are gone—it feels like an eternity since you’ve been able to get a proper scrubbing in—you step over to the bath and slip a foot in. The water—if that’s what it is—conceals you almost immediately, as though you’ve just stepped into the void itself. Were it not for the soothing warmth that seems to be unwinding your muscles already, you might forgo the bath all together.

Instead, you sink in and, before you know it, you drift.

So much has happened in so little time. It is always like this, and yet, now, is different. There is never time to process what has happened. Even when one threat is winding down, another is starting, and the Shadowlands have been no different. Yet this time it feels…more.

There is more at stake. Not just Azeroth, though that would be more than enough to move you to action. It _did_ move you to action.

Yet with all the chaos, you have almost forgotten the titan’s sword sticking out of your planet and the sky torn asunder. Instead, you worry about the kyrian who lost her life in Maldraxxus, who you found clinging to a love letter to a person she couldn’t even remember.

That she had loved someone so completely, that just the whisper of that memory had brought her solace in the end…

That all but a whisper had been left to her after following ‘the path’…

You try not to think about that, or Maldraxxus at all. That place reminds you too much of the Scourge. You pity Baron Mograine, that he must dwell there for the rest of eternity, and—not for the first time—wonder if perhaps there _is_ something wrong with the system.

So many Kyrian don’t want to forget. So many souls are being sacrificed in Ardenweald to save others. How does the Winter Queen choose? You had hoped to see some of your friends from the Cenarion Circle there, but they are absent and you do not feel kinship with any of the other seeds, like you did with Ysera’s.

Not even a flicker of familiarity.

Are they gone? Killed by a titan and unmade by a death god?

The sorrow that twists inside you is enough to drag you down to places you will never be able to crawl out of, and so you turn your attention away, force it away, to think of other things.

What can be done.

Sire Denathrius implied that there was more to talk about in the morning—how long until then is beyond you—but you don’t know what more you can do. You are a mortal, and novelty that you are, you are not any more adept at solving the afterlives’ problems than its denizens.

Or you shouldn’t be.

That so many have you running errands makes you wonder. You told yourself it was likely tests, to see if you were worthy or truthful or…whatever it is they want you to be.

It’s different in each realm, but always the same.

You wonder what Sire Denathrius will ask of you, for surely that’s why he’s kept you here.

Then your mind goes, unbidden, back to the Fearstalker. She is the same as the other venthyr that you’ve met, and yet you can’t explain what it is about her that draws your attention so quickly and begs so strongly to keep it.

Her face is gaunt and her eyes glow in a way that unsettles you, and yet…and yet you would give anything to be able to stare into them freely.

She’s beautiful, in a dangerous sort of way.

You let your mind settle on what little images are in your mind, of her sitting there, staring at you over her glass. There had been a spark of something in her eyes, hadn’t there? Mischief, perhaps?

Or was that just something your mind has already added to the memory to make it more appealing?

You are tempted to imagine what it might be like to have her here in this bath with you, but then, you are needed tomorrow and it will do no good to be just as weary then as you are now.

When you get out, you find towels by the door, and a nightgown on a hook beside them.

You dry off and don the gown, surprised by how well it fits. It shouldn’t. The venthyr are all so tall, there’s no way that they had anything like this just lying on hand, and yet there is no arguing that it’s almost as though this simple shift is made for you.

The fabric is soft and hugs you perfectly, and falls down to the floor, just barely bunching up around your toes. You do have to lift the skirt a little to walk in it, and it feels a bit like impersonating a noblewoman at some fancy dinner.

A chuckle sounds as you step out of the wash room, and your gaze snaps to the bed.

Your heart skips a beat. The Fearstalker is sitting there, watching you with that same mischief from earlier.

So it _was_ there.

“I thought that would look good on you,” she says, leaning back, her hands behind her bracing her up. She lets her gaze wander down your frame slowly, enjoying the view, before looking back to meet your gaze. She takes her time with this too, letting you wait for that moment where your gazes meet again.

Her smile is coy. She slowly sits up, letting her hands drag after her, and then motions to a small table beside the bed. “I thought you might be hungry.”

You look at the platter. None of it is remotely familiar, and yet there is clear artistry in how the little pieces have been made and presented. Like everything else here, they are decadent.

“If they don’t appeal to you, perhaps something else will.”

The words are a whisper in your ear, and you startle from your thoughts, turning to find the Fearstalker has slipped up behind you. She smiles at your surprise.

Her teeth are sharp. You knew they would be, and yet they do not deter you from eagerly meeting that wicked gaze of hers. You want to see where that mischief will lead.

Her claws trail up your arm, but she is gentle. The touch sends chills through you. When you turn to face her fully, she quirks a brow.

Perhaps it should bother you how easily she reads you, just like every other denizen in these wretched realms, but with her, you can’t quite mind.

She catches your chin with a finger and tilts your head up, that smile flashing back when you lean into her.

Her lips brush yours.

Your heart flutters a little, as you move your lips to catch hers, and she tilts her head to let you. Sharp teeth brush against your mouth, but she’s careful not to catch your skin, instead letting her lips wander along your jaw and then down your neck.

You reach up, your fingertips brushing against her neck and cupping her head near her ear. Her hair is soft. You turn your face to her, kissing where you can reach. She brushes the sleeves of your nightgown down over your shoulders and trails kisses.

As you step closer, pressing your body to hers, letting your hands wander over her and pull her tighter, she hesitates. She pulls away, appraising you carefully.

“I can smell your fear,” she says the words as a fact, letting the backs of her fingers trace your face. “But I’m curious. Do you fear _me_?”

“Do I need to?” The question spills off your tongue a bit too quickly.

The Fearstalker laughs. It’s a rich sound, soothing like her voice, though you know well enough that anyone or thing that sounds this pleasant never is. You push the thought from your mind when she replies. “You should, but not tonight.” She flashes another smile, this one feels like more of a warning. She takes your hand and brings it to her lips, pressing a chaste kiss against your knuckles. “I promise to play nice, tonight.”

With that, you reach up to cup her face with both hands and pull her down to kiss you, deeper this time. She meets your passion with her own, reaching down and catching you just under your rear. She lifts you up like you weigh nothing, and you wrap your legs around her waist as she holds you there.

Your arms slip around her neck, holding her close. You break for breath and she laughs at that, at your simple need for air. It occurs to you, somewhere in the back of your mind, that she must not need such things.

The thought is quickly forgotten as she nips your lip. It’s a sharp sting that draws blood. She pulls back just enough to see your reaction, and when you lean after her, delight glimmers in her eyes.

She turns and falls onto the bed, onto you. Her tongue runs across the cut on your lip as her weight presses pleasantly against you.

She’s still wearing the formal wear that she was in earlier, and it’s frustrating that when you try to move it aside so that you can reach more of her, it doesn’t give. Not like your night gown does for her.

With a laugh, she sits back on her knees and unbuttons her shirt with a swiftness gained from years of practice. She discards it behind her, and leans back over you, kissing your cheek and then whispering into your ear. “Better?”

Her skin is cool to the touch, and you run your hands up her stomach, over her well-toned body, to cup her breasts, still held back by her breast band. One of her large hands folds over yours, pressing your touch more firmly against her.

She lets out a pleased hum when you kiss her chest, just beneath her collar bone. Her free hand laces through your hair and pulls your head back to look up at her. “I’m curious, mortal. Why me?” When you give her a questioning look, she arches her brow. “I saw you overlook the others. _Everyone_ saw you. You barely batted an eye until you came to me.” She plays with your hair, brushing some of it away from your face. “So why me?”

The question surprises you. Partially because as you consider it, you can’t quite place why. What is it about her that’s so alluring?

Even as you struggle for a reasonable answer, anything that would make sense of this, she laughs again and leans forward to kiss your neck, nipping you again. The pain of it is a slight shock, but a pleasant one. She runs her hands up your legs, letting her claws trail over your skin as they slip beneath your gown and higher.

There’s nothing on beneath it.

She helps you out of it, and then pauses to yank off her boots. As she does so, you chase after her, kissing her shoulders and letting your hands wander over her cool skin.

“It’s just you,” you offer at last, not sure what else you can say.

Her second boot thuds faintly into the soft carpet, and she turns around, that mischief in her eyes again. “I’m not complaining, of course.” She puts an arm around you and drags you further onto the bed, again moving so that she’s on top of you. “It’s been quite some time since I laid my hands on a living mortal.”

That annoyance at being a novelty itches in the back of your mind, but she doesn’t give you a chance to dwell on it. Instead, she’s peppering your body with kisses and the occasional bite. The shift between pain and pleasure is enthralling.

You reach for her, burying your fingers in her hair. She pauses when she reaches that sweet place between your legs, letting her tongue trace over your skin, sending a fire shooting through you.

As your fingers curl in her hair, she abruptly sits up and moves over you again. You whine, the promise of a touch you haven’t felt in far too long taken away.

Her smile is wicked, that twinkle in her eye as she kisses you, her tongue parting your lips and leading you in a passionate dance.

Before you realize it, she has both of your wrists, pinning you down to the bed. A bite to your neck elicits a whimper that has her laughing against your skin.

Such a pretty sound.

The Fearstalker moves your hands until they’re over your head, crossed at the wrists. She grips them easily with one of hers and places a quick kiss to your nose as she watches to see what you’ll do.

It’s been some time since you’ve had to put yourself in the care of someone else, to trust that they will keep you alive, keep you safe. You’ve had to be in control, and the idea of letting someone else take the reins is surprisingly refreshing.

You settle in, comfortable on those heavenly sheets, and tilt your head, offering her your neck again.

Her eyes flash before she lets her free hand trail down your body. It’s so gentle, but the way she slows her pace the lower she gets is maddening.

“Please…” The word escapes you unbidden.

Her hand is under your chin again, a cruel shift from where you want it. The tips of her claws tip your chin up and she kisses you deeply. The heat in your belly curls around itself, a silent plea. You rock your hips toward her, rubbing one leg against hers just for the touch, the closeness.

She keeps kissing you, but her hand again trails down.

When her claws reach between your legs, you’re already wet, and she lets out a pleased hum, kissing your jaw and neck as she slides a finger into you. She starts slow at first, pulling away to watch your expressions.

As you gasp and whine, she picks up her pace and adds a second finger.

The sensation between your legs builds, moving out to the rest of you in waves. You arch your back, cry out softly.

She pauses when you’re close to coming undone, waiting until you beg for her to keep going to start again. She does it twice more, all the while the fire in you builds, coiling over and over.

You cry out when you climax. The world bursts into stars and light and for a moment you can’t remember why it is that you don’t favor this afterlife.

As you come down, the Fearstalker is sprawled out beside you, propping herself up with one hand while the other traces abstract designs across your stomach. She’s waiting for you, a satisfied smile on her lips as she watches you catch your breath.

“I shouldn’t keep you up too late,” she starts, letting her gaze wander down. “You were _utterly_ exhausted when you arrived.”

“I assure you,” you murmur, reaching for her and running your hand over the curves of her body. “I’m feeling _much_ better now.” 

Her face lights up with glee at the thought of what the rest of the night might bring, and in a mortal breath, your bodies are entwined again.


End file.
